


Sticks and Stones

by TheWiseMansFear



Category: LokiHohlt/SygWarsong
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:54:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27052996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWiseMansFear/pseuds/TheWiseMansFear
Summary: This is just a little story for my tiktok followers. These are Ocs my friend and I created. For more of them check out the tags #lokihohlt and #sygwarsong. My TT handle is moon.sprouts
Relationships: LokiHohlt/SygWarsong - Relationship
Kudos: 1





	Sticks and Stones

Syg had chosen the bedroom with the most windows, two, to be exact, both intentionally curtainless. He needed to see the sky, unhindered, always. 

The room sat on the corner of the shop, giving him a view of the crests of other buildings and also a vantage of the neighbour’s rooftop garden. Sometimes a white cat would bask there on the sunlit stone and he would watch it flick its fluffy tail. 

But it was a cold, wet, autumn day, both of which accounted for his still being in bed at half-past noon. He’d cancelled his classes, something he rarely did, and had yet to attempt the walk to the kitchen for coffee. But what he needed most just then was the bathroom, which was on the other side of the apartment. Not exactly the most daunting of treks but, with his leg aching so badly it hurt in his skull, it felt like doing a gauntlet.

His poor luck was only exaggerated by the fact that Loki was home, doing some nonsense in the living room. The man, distracted by whatever it was he was currently breaking, had likely missed Syg’s lingering presence. He would not, however, overlook him limping across his workspace. 

He glanced over at his nightstand, at the empty coffee cup there, and, not for the first time, weighed the pros and cons. His conclusion was the same as it had been five minutes ago. It would be less embarrassing to struggle now, than to spill a cup of his own piss all over himself during his struggle later. Because he would be in worse pain when it grew darker and colder and, according to the forecast, wetter. 

So, he just did it. He sat up, already clutching his cane, having been holding onto it like a baby with a rattle. The soothing effects of the rune-spell he’d laid into it was enough to curb the discomfort on normal days, but it did little for him at times like these. 

Usually he would text Lus and she would bring him up something potent from the shop, but she was on holiday and as much as he liked Keya, he did not need any more witnesses to his weakness than he’d already had. 

He also refused to keep any medication on hand. He didn’t trust himself with it. So, he took what Lus would bring him and never asked for anything more.

Maybe that was foolish, but though a decade had gone by, he still remembered the terrible smear of months spent on the streets, barely lucid. He didn’t want to be there, or anywhere similar, ever again.

His skin crawled at the thought and the discomfort pushed him upward onto the foot he knew would hold him. He set the other one down gingerly. 

As anticipated, it throbbed in response. He put necessary pressure on it as he stood and breathed through the first resounding scream of pain, scrubbing the resulting cold-sweat from his forehead with the back of his free hand. 

It’d been worse. Much worse.

That reminder got him as far as the other side of the bedroom before losing its effect, further than he’d thought it would, so that was nice. He rested against the door for a long moment before pushing it open to face the universe’s next obstacle. 

The entire living room was in disarray. The furniture was all on its side, the lamps were unplugged and askew, papers scattered, books stacked, a veritable minefield between himself and the bathroom. Loki didn’t look up right away, preoccupied with an armful of throw pillows. Noting the pistol holstered at the detective’s side, Syg decided it was in his best interest to announce himself.

He straightened to the best of his ability and forced the discomfort from his tone before asking, “what’s all this? New case?”

Loki shifted the pillows and peered at him from around a frilled edgeroll. “Oh, you’re here.” 

Syg raised his brows. He must have really taken the man by surprise. It wasn’t like him to waste words on the obvious. “My classes were cancelled this morning,” he replied, which was not  _ technically  _ a lie. 

It was a mystery in itself, the reason why Syg still attempted half-truths in his partner’s presence. They were  _ always  _ seen through. He had no doubt that this time was no different. 

The redhead looked at him for a second longer, said “well, watch your step,” and then went back to assigning odd positions to the decor. 

He kept his eyes on the floor as he moved, mostly to keep from falling over any number of displaced items, but also to avoid catching Loki’s gaze, which he felt on him in too-frequent intervals. 

Closing the bathroom door behind him was almost a relief.  _ Almost _ . The bathroom was small and windowless and, for the instant before he reached the switch, it was dark. Which was fine. It was fine. Because the door didn’t lock. He’d warped the mechanism himself. If he wanted to get out, he could. 

_ He could get out. _

Pissing took too long.

Brushing his teeth took longer. 

His leg screamed outrage throughout his nerves, the pain coalescing in his skull and stomach, making him dizzy as well as nauseous. He threw a handful of water on his face and shut the faucet off, breathing heavily and snarling up at his reflection. He looked like his father that way, more so because his stubble had turned to thick scruff overnight due to persistent dwarvish genetics. 

He had done all he could to never be mistaken for that man who, even a dimension away, was known and remembered. This included remaining clean shaven. He knew he wasn’t going to be able to stand there long enough to rectify his appearance now though, and for some reason that discomfort was the worst so far. 

Coffee. Heating pad. Laptop. He needed those three things and then he could sit back down. He’d sequester himself in his bedroom and grade papers and answer emails until he was too tired to be frustrated or in pain. It was the perfect plan, or would have been, if he’d been by himself in the apartment and was free to hobble around unseen. 

As it was, he at least had to give  _ some _ thought to his pride. Considering the gross amount of humiliation he’d already suffered over the course of his life, he’d earned the right to a little vanity. Even if it was just trying to make his limp a little more subtle while Loki was around.

With one last glower at his reflection, he left the bathroom, glancing at the detective and finding him still busily rearranging the living-room. Syg inhaled slowly and mapped a clear path to the coffee pot, noting that the floor was suspiciously less cluttered than it had been minutes earlier. 

He spared another look at Loki and then limped to the kitchen with as much success as he could have hoped for. He used the coffee pot rather than the press, though he preferred the latter by leaps. Days like this were why cutting corners was a thing. 

While it brewed, he rinsed a thermos out-- there was no way he was going to risk carrying a brimming mug-- and forced down a  _ touch-too-brown _ banana. His sour stomach settled a little and his thoughts became a little less muddled. 

There was some commotion in the living room, a scuffing and a bout of low cursing. On a better day he’d have gone to see what all the ruckus was, instead he leaned heavily against the counter and massaged his thigh. The pressure didn’t do much but offer his brain a different sensation to fixate on, but that was relief enough. 

Again, he wondered if it would be better to simply have the thing amputated. He’d been to healers and doctors and spell-workers, but the damage he’d done to himself with his shoddy rune-work combined with bones more crushed than broken, the limb was wrecked. 

But it worked. The knee bent and it held most his weight. That was a miracle in itself. 

The coffee machine growled and he shoved thoughts of surgeries away. He didn’t want to lose his leg, even if it was doing him more harm than good. Not after all he’d done to keep it.

If that was folly, so be it. 

He poured coffee into the thermos and turned to the refrigerator for milk. 

The movement proved too sudden and his vision went white with pain, nerves misfiring as his bad knee gave. He threw his arms out blindly, catching himself but displacing both his thermos and the carafe from the counter in the process. The latter shattered, spitting shards of glass and spilling a tide of hot coffee across the floor. 

“Syg?” Loki’s inquiry was calm, but the approaching footfalls that accompanied it set his heart to racing. 

“It’s fine,” he snapped, mortification twisting into anger. He reached for the dish-towel and painstakingly maneuvered his socked feet away from the spill. “Don’t bother. Go back to your case.”

He couldn’t clean it up. He couldn’t kneel to reach the liquid running beneath the counter or to pick glass up from beneath the fridge. His father’s temper uncoiled in his chest and he may have unleashed it had Loki not appeared in front of him. 

“Give me that,” the detective hummed, holding his hand out, indicating the dish-towel with his eyes.

“I can do it.” The words were out before he had time to think better of the lie. 

Blessedly, the redhead just stared at him, hand outstretched, a soft flinch of fingers the only further command. 

Syg relinquished the cloth, the fight all gone out of him. “I’m sorry,” he breathed, smothering a grimace. He stabilized himself and tried his best to keep out of the way. If he’d thought he’d be able to get down unaided, he’d have pulled himself up to perch on the countertop. But  _ alas _ . “I’ll grab a new one after class tomorrow.”

“The coffee pot is the least of my concerns.” 

His stomach knotted up at the implication and he immediately tried to deviate its meaning. “Oh? Tough case?”

Loki knelt and used the towel to push liquid and glass to one side. “Not as difficult as some,” he replied, casting him a look that said, very loudly, that they were in metaphor territory. “Go sit down, I cleared your armchair.”

Shame leaked color into his cheeks and he kept his head down as he limped past.

How frustrating it must be to have a partner who was slow on the stairs, who held them up during chases and who couldn’t even bend to clean up spilled coffee on rainy days. 

He eyed the armchair and glared at the laptop resting on the end-table beside it, charger already plugged in. Loki had done that, as well as returned the ottoman to its rightful place so that he could put his leg up. There was even a stack of magazines within arms reach that he  _ knew _ had not been there earlier. 

The kindness should have made him smile. He snarled instead. Not a fair reaction, he understood that, but his face twisted up all the same.

He should be grateful, glad even, that someone cared about him enough to want to make him comfortable. But all he could muster was guilt. It was hard to wrap his head around the idea that he did not have to  _ earn _ Loki’s kindness, harder still to push away the urge to constantly try. 

Loki was not like Magnus, who had used him and thrown him out with the trash the moment he needed more help than he was worth. His every stumble was not being tallied someplace, a score to be wielded against him later, there was no long list of shortcomings stashed away as evidence of his defectiveness. He was not in that place anymore.

Why was it so hard to believe it?

Despite wanting to hide in his bedroom, he lowered himself into the chair and let out a long breath before persuading his leg onto the ottman. The relief was meager but instantaneous and he let himself take a moment to simply  _ stop. _ No thoughts, no feelings, just the deep burning ache of an ill-mended injury. 

He wasn’t going to question which wound it was.

A firm hand came to rest atop his head, long fingers tussling his curls. He closed his eyes, a soft sound ghosting over his lips, something despairing and apologetic.

Loki set a cup of pressed coffee on the end-table,  _ without _ a coaster. Syg didn’t need to open his eyes to know it. “I’m glad you didn’t go to class,” the man said. The  _ like this _ was implied. 

Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe that was Syg’s brain again, twisting things. “I’m sorry.”

The pad of Loki’s thumb brushed his ear and he couldn't help but lean into the touch. His thoughts tried to stir up all the reasons why he didn’t deserve the tenderness, but the detective smoothed his curls, derailing them. 

“Are you?” Loki hummed. “For what, exactly?”

“I interrupted your--” he threw a hand blindly at the disasterscape around him “--this.”

“And I interrupted your brooding,” the detective stepped back and smiled, “so we’re even.”

“I wasn’t brooding.”

The man scoffed and took a small vile from his shirt pocket. “Take this.”

His response was immediate. “No.”

“It’s the same as Lus always gives you, I promise.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Lus isn’t in today.”

Loki rolled his and then set the container down next to Syg’s coffee. “She makes it in advance. It only takes looking at the forecast to know you’ll need it.”

Syg’s scowl deepened, but he’d already caused enough trouble. Any more obstinacy and it’d be petulant. He downed the drought in one go. 

It was terrible, as always. Loki handed him his coffee before he could reach for it and he let the hot liquid chase the awful fermented  _ whatever _ it was, away. 

When he recovered, Loki had the heating pad in hand. Syg reached for it but the man was already targeting the ottoman. “Don’t,” he warned sharply. 

“You’re a bad patient,” Loki sighed. “Why won’t— forget that, I know why.” Green eyes met his, manipulatively beseeching. “But come on, Syg. I  _ like _ taking care of you.” 

“Why?”

“Because this is a problem I can’t solve.” The redhead waved the heating pad at his leg, almost poutily. “And I don’t know how else to deal with that.” 

“Fine,” he conceded, sagging into the cushions. “Sorry. Yes. This is normal.” This was okay. This was healthy. This was good. 

“Right,” Loki confirmed. “It’s partner things. And you’ll be able to tell Athe you did your homework.”

Syg groaned. “Don’t bring therapy into this.” Loki was grinning, another thing he didn’t need to see to know. “Well, get on with it then,” he grumbled.

His lover laughed, and Syg closed his eyes as his leg was shifted, gently but not without discomfort. The warmth bled into the muscle and that, combined with Lus’ mixture, began to make the pain tolerable.

Loki ran hands down his pant leg, resting his palms on Syg’s calf where the heating pad didn’t reach. The pressure hurt but in a good way, a counter to the ache, and he had to try very hard not to emit scandalous sounds as Loki began a tentative massage.

He tried not to think. Thinking would only complicate things. 

Naturally, he failed. 

This was good. It was okay. This intimacy was safe and Loki wasn’t going to hold it over his head later. There was no debt, no value exchanges. Just freely given care. 

He was not a burden. 

His mind caught on that one statement and repeated it again and again while Loki’s hands worked, a desire he desperately wanted to manifest.

“Loki.” The medication had finally reached his brain and was putting a soft film over everything, quieting his surroundings like a heavy snow. But he was warm, watching from behind a window, safe, not trapped, content.

“Hm?”

“Thank you,” he murmured. 

“Anytime, professor.”

  
  
  
  



End file.
